Evelyn had caught up the heap of scattered fragments in her hurry. Such portions as had been destroyed had evidently been chosen in haste, picked at random from a number of torn pieces; for occasionally one could put together half a consecutive line, while often again whole lines were missing. The notes and letters were in various handwritings. White to the lips, her face set and stern, dreading she knew not what, she separated those which were not written by Brand from those which were. Pausing a moment to reflect, she went back to these, and patiently grouped them into little heaps, piecing them together with infinite care. Amongst others there was a note from Dora—this was the first time she had learned that Mrs. Farquharson was in communication with her husband. Dora’s note—oh, the rashness of women!—was dated two days before these inexplicable notes of Brand’s. "I don’t see how I can do what you want," she had written; then a few lines were missing, "should you press me ... can’t hold up against ... too strong ... as you wish ... time is short ... we have ... hurry. Cruel of ... he has never done much for me ... should think ... his piece of mind? ... Miserable ... unhappy ..." A few odd fragments of note-paper were still left in the basket, written in a strange hand. Evelyn took these out. They contained a brief message arranging an immediate interview, signed with the name of the man through whose hands it was suspected, failing Von Kirsch, that the stolen notes had passed. The envelope was addressed to Henry Brand. "_To-day at four-thirty—Meningen._" And the date upon the letter was one never to be forgotten. "_To-day at four-thirty—Meningen._" Evelyn repeated the words aloud. The sound reached her meaninglessly, in confused vibrations, as sounds reach the ears of the deaf. For the moment reason swayed; how could she grapple with the difficulties that faced her? with all that the little scraps of paper involved? Cold, stern, pitiless, Evelyn stood beside the table, looking down at her work. How clear things seemed now, and yet—could they be clear? Would any Englishman, however poor, be treacherous to his country where her honour was imperilled, where her safety was threatened? Would any wife betray her husband to save herself? Her heart answered her. Only a man like Brand—the man with whose life she had been linked indissolubly; only a woman like Dora—without heart or imagination. This must be given to the world—at once. Her heart leapt. Farquharson would be saved—by her—his character re-established. Once reinstated he would hold his own; the stronger for the seeming fall, he would go on from strength to strength. But what of her? He would not need her now. And what of Brand? Shamed and broken, proved a traitor, forced perhaps to pay the penalty of his crime, how could she desert him now?